


Owl Post

by fits_in_frames



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-06
Updated: 2006-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years, Harry has had a very definite routine for himself, and today is no different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Owl Post

For years, Harry has had a very definite routine for himself, and today is no different. At dawn, he wakes up and makes himself a cup of black coffee and reads the Muggle newspaper, wet with dew from sitting on his doorstep a bit too long. (Sometimes he laughs at himself for still calling it the "Muggle" newspaper, because really, it is just a regular newspaper.) There are never any mentions of his name anywhere on the inky pages, and he likes it that way.

Around nine, he eats something, and then he dusts off the mantle. The only sign that someone uses this room at all is perched here: two still photographs in frames--one of a handsome, red-haired young man with a crooked, sheepish smile and green eyes behind thick glasses; the other of a beautiful young woman with black hair thrown into a messy bun on top of her head and a vaguely smug expression on her face. The few visitors that call always say they look about the same age--in fact, they are exactly the same age, but he never says so.

At ten, he reads the owl post he occasionally still receives (sometimes a postcard from George or a quick hello from Neville or even the occasional note from Luna) and does the day's crossword puzzle and makes more coffee.

At noon, he goes out to the Muggle mailbox he convinced Ginny to put up outside their house years and years and eons and ages ago, and there's never anything in it but a large spiderweb and a thick layer of dust that he's never bothered to clean. He snaps it shut defiantly and stomps his way back inside the house and makes some lunch.

At two, he takes a nap.

At four, he walks to a Muggle shop and buys a dozen roses, then walks down the lane to a tiny, gated cemetary. He finds the gravestone with ease--not only has he been there more times than he can count, but it's the only one with flowers (albeit three days old and rotting) on it. He picks these up and throws them in the nearby trashcan, and kneels to replace them with the roses he just bought. He runs his fingers over the letters carved into stone, though he knows them by heart: _Ginvera Molly Weasley Potter, 1981-2005. Beloved daughter, sister, wife, mother_. He stands, brushes the dirt off his knees, shoves his hands in his pockets, and starts to walk home. He stops and sits at the bench where old women wait for the bus to take them into London, watching the children play in the park across, absently scratching at his forehead. He hears them call him "Old Man Potter", but he doesn't mind. It's not like no one's called him names before.

At five-thirty, he makes dinner, sits in front of the fireplace and watches the flames lick at the stone as he eats in silence. Sometimes his eyes wander to the potraits on top of the mantle, but he always manages to turn his focus down quickly enough.

At seven, he turns out all the lights in the house with a flick of his wand (one of the only things he uses it for, nowadays) and makes his way to the bedroom in the dark on instinct. He turns on the bedside light and undresses and redresses and props himself up in the bed. He grabs a battered copy of _The Odyssey_ off the nightstand and opens it to the dog-eared page. (Hermione would kill him right now if she knew what he'd done to the book she'd given him for his seventeenth birthday, but she's miles and miles away.)

At nine, he snaps the book shut, runs a hand through his hair, and opens the drawer of the nightstand. The photograph inside is moving: a cocky, green-eyed wizard with jet-black hair and dress robes to match, standing next to a red-haired witch in barely-peach robes, continually shoving cake in each other's faces, laughing through the frosting. He whispers, "Good night Ginny," folds his glasses into resting position, and flicks off the light.

He doesn't dream.

He wakes up the next morning, makes coffee, reads the newspaper, eats, dusts. At nine-thirty, he hears a tap at the kitchen window. It's too early for owl post, and yet there's a ragged-looking tawny clicking impatiently at him. He opens the window and takes the letter. He holds the folded parchment in his hands like it is an ancient relic. It might as well be. The handwriting is shaky at best, but he still recognizes it definitively. The owl hoots twice at him and flies away in a hurry. As he breaks the wax seal (imprinted with a simple "W"), he remembers when his entire life was a series of letters fluttering back and forth on the wings of a snowy owl.

He reads the three lines, drops it into the sink, watches the ink bleed, leans on the counter for support.

_Harry -_

_Hermione's dead. Thought you should know._

_\- Ron_

*

He studies himself in the mirror, and he suddenly feels very old. He's wearing a pin-striped Muggle suit he inherited several years ago. (At some point between then and now, he had embroidered a tiny gold-and-scarlet lion into one of the lapels, but he can't remember when, or why.) The faint lines around his eyes are hidden very well by his glasses, but he knows they're there. There are streaks of grey hair radiating from his temples; he thinks of the rumors he's heard that these are lightning-bolt shaped, and laughs despite himself.

He checks the letter he got from the Grangers--10:30AM on Friday, it says. He glances at the clock above the mantle as he walks through the living room: it is 10:26. He takes the few things he's set out on the kitchen table (an old tattered book, a set of robes, his wand, some dried flowers) and puts them in a brown-paper sack. He makes sure the front door locks behind him and walks to the corner. There are several little old ladies there, and they all eye him cautiously, silently. The dried roses are sticking out of the top of his package, and one of the ladies asks him if they're for a lady friend. He says yes, he supposes you could say that, but doesn't elaborate. They all nod knowingly. _They don't know anything_ , he thinks.

He rides on the bus in silence, getting off near where the Leaky Cauldron used to be. There's a funeral parlour there now. He walks inside. The sign directs him to the left, and he follows it. A teenaged girl and her older brother, both strawberry blonde, are standing stiffly in the doorway. He recognizes them immediately, even though he's only seen pictures of the girl, and hasn't seen the boy since he was, well, a boy. He leans over to his sister, whispers something in her ear, and she relaxes slightly, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. When he gets close enough, she says, "Hi Uncle Harry."

"Nice to finally meet you, Maura," he says, setting down his package and hugging her warmly. "And you've certainly grown up, Arthur." He smiles sadly and the two men shake hands.

"Grandmum is inside," Maura says. "I'm sure she'd love to see you."

"Is--is your dad here?" he asks Arthur. He's not sure why he asked--he doesn't really want to know the answer.

"Yeah. He hasn't spoken to anyone all day, except, you know, to ask us to stand out here."

He picks up his package and squeezes Arthur's shoulder as he walks past them, into the main room. "Thanks."

An elderly couple and another old woman are sitting on one of the couches, and he starts to walk towards them when someone calls, "Wotcher, Harry?"

He turns to find a witch with long, faintly pink hair and a wide smile. "Tonks!"

"Actually," she says as he approaches, "most people call me Dora, now. 'Cept for my students."

"How are you?" He feels foolish, but he hasn't spoken to anyone he knew before in months, and he's happy the first is Tonks. They sit.

"Oh, all right, I suppose. It's been tough without Remus around."

He nods, slowly, holds her hand. "I know. I've been there."

"I'm only glad we didn't have children--not that we could have, you know--but it would've been so much harder. Just me, I can handle it." She smiles, half-heartedly.

"If it helps, time does heal all wounds. It's only been what, a year? You'll be all right. I mean, look at me!" He gestures to his suit and grins.

"Thanks, Harry." She pats his hand and glances at her wrist watch. "I need to get going. I teach at 11, you know." She grins proudly.

"I bet you're great," he says, and kisses her cheek.

"See you around, Harry," she says, and wanders off to say a few more goodbyes.

He walks towards the three elderly people he saw earlier. They all look up at him.

"Oh, Harry!" one of the ladies says, standing up and throwing her arms around him. "Harry, dear, I'm so glad to see you."

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley."

"Oh, call me Molly, dear. It's been long enough!" She sounds a bit hysterical.

"That's all right, Mrs. Weasley." He look around her, to the other two. "Hello Mrs. Granger, Mr. Granger."

"Hello, Harry," Mrs. Granger says, clutching her handkerchief and rubbing her nose with her free hand. Mr. Granger extends a hand, but doesn't say anything. He shakes it.

"Oh, Harry, I can't believe how long it's been! We haven't seen you since Ginny--" She stops midsentence, then restarts her thoughts. "We haven't seen you in ages!"

"I know, Mrs. Weasley." He glances to his right, and for the first time sees a man standing in front of the casket. He looks back at Mrs. Weasley and she nods to him. He squeezes her hand, sets his package down next to her, and moves away.

He reaches up to put an arm around the man's shoulders. He doesn't seem to notice. His hair--once thick and red--is thinning and mostly grey, but he supposes he should have expected that. After all, it's been nineteen years. They stand in steely silence for a few long minutes, staring with glazed eyes at the bushy-haired woman lying in the casket. When words finally come, they are barely audible but sincere.

"'Lo, Harry."

"Hi, Ron," he says.

*

When he gets to the Burrow, he stands in the doorway, closes his eyes, leans against the doorframe. After everyone else is inside, he walks back out and sits in the grass, not caring about his Muggle suit anymore. He watches the trees sway in the breeze, and fumbles with a blade of grass between his fingers. He hears someone walk up behind him, squints into the noonday sun for a moment before his eyes adjust, and pretends he didn't know it was Ron all along.

"You mind?" Ron asks quietly, gesturing to the ground.

He shakes his head. "I'm--" he begins.

"Don't," Ron says, putting up a hand as he adjusts himself into a sitting position. "Just don't."

"All right." He looks down at the grass he's torn up again, and they don't speak until a Muggle car pulls up the drive.

"That would be James and Cassie, then?" Ron asks.

"Yeah," he says. "That's Cassie's boyfriend's car. He's a Muggle," he adds.

Ron nods. They both stand up, brush the grass off their arses, and walk over to the car. He can see through the tinted windows that Cassie is sharing a long goodbye kiss and James, half out of the car, is positively disgusted. He catches his father's eye and smiles sheepishly. "Hi Dad," he calls, and a moment later, Cassie is on her feet, slamming the door behind her and the car drives away.

He opens his arms and wraps one around each of his children. He breathes deeply and pulls them close.

"Dad," James says faintly, "you're choking me."

He lets go and steps back. "Sorry," he says, and Cassie trails her fingers on his suit jacket.

"I like it, Dad. Where'd you get it?"

"Grandad Weasley," Ron says suddenly formal, as though he was introducing members of an expedition to each other. "You must be Cassie and James." He extends his hand for both of them to shake. They do. Let it never be said that Harry Potter couldn't raise two respectable children. "I'm your Uncle Ron."

"I know," James says, and glances at his father.

Recognizing his cue, he says, "Here, I'm sure Grandmum is dying to meet you," and takes both of them inside. When he looks out the window a half hour later, Ron is still sitting in the grass.

*

At dusk, he sits at the kitchen table, sipping on a frigid cup of tea he made himself hours ago when Bill and Fleur stopped by with their new grandson. James and Cassie are sitting by the fireplace, chatting with their cousins about music and films and magic. Mrs. Weasley has gone to bed, so he stares into the fireplace and lets his mind wander. He jumps when someone slams the front door and stomps inside. Ron appears in the kitchen a moment later, covered in mud from head to foot.

"Ron, what--" he says, standing up.

"Don't start," Ron half-scolds, putting up a hand to indicate he should sit down. Then, to himself, "I'm too old for this crap."

"What happened?"

He starts siphoning off the mud, to little success. "Bloody garden gnomes. Thought they'd have a laugh by--oh Merlin, it's everywhere!"

"Here," he says, standing up despite silent protests. He performs a quick charm and Ron is entirely clean, save for a spot on the tip of his nose. He wipes it off with the edge of his sleeve.

"Thanks," Ron mutters, and collapses into the chair next to Harry's. The next few moments are filled only by their children's twittering.

He smiles and asks, "Remember when we were that age?"

"Yeah," Ron says contemptously, "we were off fighting You-Know-Who, we were."

"Hey, don't blame me. You volunteered, remember? You and Hermione both."

"Yeah, well at least she got something out of it." He makes a motion in the air to indicate a name in lights. "Hermione Granger, Auror, and--" now the motion was much smaller "--her husband, Ronald Weasley, lowly worker in the Department of Magical Games and Sports." He stands up and grabs himself a mug, conjuring tea into it. "Bloody long name."

"But you were good at it! If you hadn't resigned last year, you'd've been Head for sure!" He isn't sure where the words came from or why he said them, but he is instantly beginning to regret them.

"How did you know that?" Ron snaps, pausing in mid-sit. "How the bloody hell did you know that?"

He clears his throat, readjusts his Muggle dress shirt. "Believe it or not, I still have contacts in the Ministry."

"Oh, I'm sure. You were their golden boy, weren't you? Harry Potter, Auror extraordinaire--defeating Lord Voldemort was just the beginning!" Ron's tone has gone from bitter to mocking in a matter of moments. "Well, if you were so bloody brilliant, how come you couldn't save my--"

Cassie clears her throat in the doorway, and both men look up at her. "Dad--Uncle Ron, James and I were wondering if we could stay the night here."

He eyes Ron, who is trying his hardest to hide the fact that he is burning up inside. He nods.

"It's all right with me, dear. I suppose any room is fair game, eh?" He looks at Ron again.

"Just not the attic," Ron says, smiling at her. "Or your grandmum's room. Everyone else has gone home." Or isn't around anymore, Harry thinks.

Cassie kisses both of them on the cheek and returns to her brother and cousins to deliver the good news.

"Well," he says, stretching, "it's getting late. I should be going."

Ron snorts, but doesn't protest.

"You said yourself, you're too old for this crap." He gets up to leave, and grabs his package from between the couches where his niece and nephew and son and daughter are sitting. He kisses both girls, shakes hands with Arthur and hugs James lightly. He stops with one foot out of the door when he hears his name. He turns.

"Harry!" Ron calls again, closer this time. "It's a long way back and it's dark and--oh hell, stay the night." He walks upstairs before Harry can thank him.

*

At nine, he closes _The Odyssey_ and turns off the light over Fred's old bed. It feels odd, sleeping in a dead man's bed, but then he realizes he's been sleeping in a dead woman's bed for years and it never bothered him--well, at least it didn't anymore.

Around midnight, he wakes up suddenly, in a cold sweat. The feeling sweeping over him is odd, something he hasn't felt in years. It takes him a few seconds to realize: He's been dreaming. He throws back the covers, fumbles with his glasses in the dark, and pads out into the hallway. He gets about halfway to the stairs when he jumps as his own shadow is cast by a sudden light behind him.

"Harry?" comes a low, groggy voice, "is that you?"

After a few seconds, he whispers back, "Yeah."

"What are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep." He hesitates. "Nightmare."

"Oh."

They stand in silence for what seems like a lifetime before he blurts out, "Can I sleep in your room?"

"Yeah, all right."

He grabs his blanket and pillow from the twins' old room and climbs up into the attic. He breathes deeply, remembering the late nights he used to spend here, and grins contentedly. He opens his eyes to find Ron staring at him.

"Well, you want the bed or the floor, then?"

He stiffens slightly. "Floor's fine."

"No, no it's not fine," Ron says, sitting on the bed, rubbing his hands over his face. "Here," he says, and pulls out his wand, doubling the size of the bed so it fills the small room instantly. "We're both too old for this crap." He smiles sadly and curls up under the blankets, away from Harry. Harry pulls off his slippers and does the same so they are back-to-back.

He begins to wonder when Ron is going to turn the light out when he asks, "What was the nightmare about?"

He splutters for a moment, then says, truthfully, "I don't remember."

And without another word, the room is in darkness.

*

He sleeps until noon.

Coming down the stairs, he remembers how good a cook his son is. He walks into the kitchen, greeted by his niece and nephew and daughter and Mrs. Weasley, and sits at the table. Ron is helping James with the bacon, but asks Arthur to take his place as soon as he sees Harry. Arthur whines but complies. Mrs. Weasley slides the plate of eggs down to Harry, and he serves himself, eats quickly. He knows Ron is not leaning against the counter because he wants to watch two twenty-something wizards cook like Muggles. Mrs. Weasley strikes up a conversation with Maura and Cassie about the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_ and he walks towards Ron, who is heading outside.

They walk around the garden with their hands in their pockets, staring at the ground. He wishes that one of them smoked so someone's mouth would be busy without being uncomfortable.  
Ron looks up at the sky, kicks at the ground.

"Look," Harry says, but doesn't continue when Ron stops in his tracks.

"No, you look." They subconciously turn to face each other. "All I want to know is--"

"Why Ginny's dead and I'm still alive."

Ron sets his jaw, relaxes his stance and looks at the sky again.

"Ginny's dead," he says, biting back a lump in his throat, "because there was a latent curse on her brain that no one knew about--not even me--and I tried my damnedest to save her but she was dead before she finished screaming. It was Voldemort's final blow from beyond the grave."

"So it's--"

"Yes, it's my fault she's dead, are you happy?" he yells, not caring who hears him. "Are you _fucking_ happy? I killed your sister--the mother of my children, my own _goddamn_ wife. It's all my fault and that's why I resigned from my Auror position, that's why I could never face your father. That's why--" He suddenly loses his voice to impending tears.

Ron puts a hand on his shoulder, leans over so he is at Harry's eye level. He is half-smiling. Harry wipes the back of his hand on his cheek and Ron pulls him in for a hug. He throws his arms around Ron's chest and buries his nose into his neck. When they finally break apart, Ron's nose is redder than usual and his voice sounds as though he's swallowed a bit of his own tongue.

"I was going to say," he says, sniffing loudly, "that it wasn't your fault at all."

Harry looks up at him sharply.

"I always knew it was a curse that killed her, I had no idea it was You-Know---I mean, Lord Voldemort. I thought it was--different. The Ministry wouldn't tell me anything. Y-you wouldn't tell me anything. I thought you were hiding something from me."

"Well," Harry says, swallowing hard, "I really wasn't supposed to tell you any of that, officially." He catches Ron's eye. "But, I say to hell with the Ministry." And they burst out laughing, feeling stupid and young and foolish.

"And just to be clear," Ron says, getting hysterical, "Hermione was cooking up some new potion for the Ministry and it exploded in her face and they tried to keep it hush-hush, but bloody hell, I'm her husband so what did they expect?" His hysterics soon turn sour, and Harry takes him in his arms again until he stiffens, pulls away, falls to his knees, and retches into the petunias. Harry crouches and rubs his back and promises, no, he won't tell his mum that he probably ruined her petunias and no, he won't tell James that Uncle Ron threw up the eggs and bacon he so carefully cooked. They stand up and Harry hooks an arm around Ron's waist and when they walk back inside, Mrs. Weasley hugs them both and says she wishes Arthur and Hermione could see this.

*

He wakes up at dawn and makes black coffee. He reads the Muggle newspaper and skims _The Daily Prophet_ for his own name, finds it four times, all on page three. At nine, he gets a telephone call from Cassie: she's coming over tomorrow night and bringing her boyfriend. At ten, owl post arrives.

There's a postcard from Luna (she's in Africa, studying the eight-horned something-or-others) and a request from the _Prophet_ for an interview. And, tucked in between these, is a small square of parchment with scrawly handwriting. He breaks the seal, and reads:

_Harry--_

_Are we still on for tea at 4?_

_\--Ron_

He goes to his desk, pulls out a piece of parchment much too large for the job at hand, and writes, _You bet._ He rolls it up and gives it to the post owl before she flutters out the window. His eyes linger for a moment on the picture in a frame, propped up against his stack of spell books. He watches himself smear cake on Ginny's face a few times before he smiles widely and goes to pick out what he's going to wear at four this afternoon.


End file.
